


hey, isn't this easy

by MelikaElena



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, High School AU, Modern AU, these two nerds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-05
Updated: 2016-05-05
Packaged: 2018-06-06 11:14:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6751696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelikaElena/pseuds/MelikaElena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When making plans for Prom with your Prom Date, it's generally a good idea to ask them to Prom first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hey, isn't this easy

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this post: my best friend just called me to ask what color he should wear to prom and I was like “um?? idk??” and he goes “well we have to match, so like what color is ur dress??” but he never asked me to go so I was kinda confused so I told him “hey, yeah since when are we going to prom?” and the line goes silent for a bit and he very quietly whispers “shit. I forgot to ask u”

As usual, Clarke’s on a roll. She’s talking about a mile a minute, jumping between the difficulty of their AP Calculus homework to how her mom’s annoyed her this week to their weekly Associated Student Body meeting (of which Clarke is Vice President and Bellamy is President) to Wells’ latest attempt to ask Raven to Prom.

It’s the last part that she’s currently on, and Bellamy, phone wedged between his ear and his shoulder, is only half-listening. He would feel guilty, but he knows Clarke doesn’t mind much– she just needs someone to vent to: a reciprocal conversation isn’t necessary. Bellamy makes sympathetic noises every once in awhile, and he _does_ follow the conversation, but– well, he has math homework _, too_ , you know, and he’s not the greatest at it.

Bellamy’s on the second-to-last problem when he tunes back in, fully, because he realizes that Clarke’s asked him a question. “Sorry,” he says, “could you repeat that?”

He can practically _hear_ Clarke rolling her eyes, but she doesn’t remark on it. “I’m going dress shopping for Prom this weekend. Any color preferences? Guys don’t usually care that much, but like, I also overheard Miller saying last week that he despises the color orange and no matter what Monty said he wasn’t going to wear it, and I know Miller’s a weirdo, but he’s one of your best friends, which, by association, also makes _you_ a weirdo, so I wanted to be sure that you didn’t have any vendettas against certain colors.”

“I…” Bellamy’s mind is drawing a complete blank. Did he miss more of the conversation than he thought? “I don’t understand.”

Clarke’s silent for a minute. Stumped. “What part don’t you understand?”

“Why are you asking about my color preferences for Prom?”

“Because we’re going together?” Clarke’s voice raises at the end, but her tone is certain. As though they’ve discussed this, as though it’s a Done Deal.

Bellamy nearly drops the phone. He would’ve remembered if he and Clarke were going to Prom together; lord knows he’s only been secretly dreaming about it for _months_ now, ever since they tied in elections for ASB President last spring and she let him have the position. There had only been one person running for Vice President, Ontari Woods, but once it was revealed that she had gone around threatening everyone else interested in running for VP, the administration stripped her of the position and asked Clarke if she wanted to do it. She accepted, and they had been working together ever since, rather rapidly becoming good friends over the course of their senior year.

Bellamy realized he was in love with her when he happened to mention to her in the fall, early on in their friendship, that he hadn’t decided if he was going to college yet. He had taken the SATs and ACTs done well; his grades were good and his extracurriculars indicated that he was, in the words of Raven Reyes, a “big fuckin’ nerd,” but he crunched numbers and worried about taking out a loan; worried about leaving his younger sister, Octavia, a freshman, with their neglectful, irresponsible mother; and he might have to put off his dream for a few years. Imagine his surprise when, a month later at an ASB meeting, nonchalant as can be, Clarke handed him a folder with a couple dozen scholarship and grant applications that he was perfectly qualified for; an excel spreadsheet with colleges and their rankings, distance from home, price, and financial aid packages; and the contact information of her godfather, Marcus Kane, who happened to be one of the Deans at the local university. “What’s this?” He looked at her, gobsmacked.

She had shrugged, not looking at him. “I was doing some research this weekend,” she said, “you know me. Looking into every aspect of, um, schools I’m interested in. And then I made this spreadsheet and thought you might find it interesting, too.”

Bellamy looked at her warily. This felt a little too close to charity. “And the scholarships?”

Her fingers tightened on her notebook. “If no one else is going to fight for your dream,” she said, looking at him finally, eyes fierce, posture defiant, “then I _will_ , Bellamy Blake.”

He got into his first choice, the excellent state school, two months later, early decision. They had a program for kids like him, poor kids who were the first in their families to go to college, that their tuition would be covered as long as their GPAs remained at a certain level. He had enough scholarships to cover his books and dorm fees for the first year, too.

It’s only an hour away from Octavia, and– Clarke’s going there, too.

Having that in common only made them that much closer, and Bellamy knows the rumors around school about them, but Clarke’s never indicated that she’s liked him as more than a friend, going out with other girls and guys over the course of the year, so Bellamy keeps it to himself. It’s slightly agonizing, but her friendship is more important to him than his own feelings, so he keeps quiet.

But this… is he dreaming? Is this a dream? Did he fall asleep doing his homework (again)? Bellamy pinches himself, a little too hard. _Fuck_. Okay, definitely awake, then.

“I…” he clears his throat, tries not to sound so wrecked. “We are? Since when?”

For a minute, there’s no response and Bellamy worries that this really is a dream, until he hears Clarke swear, “ _Shit_. I forgot to ask you.”

“You–” Bellamy can’t remember what words are anymore. “You were going to ask me?” As a friend, he tells himself forcefully, willing his heart rate to go down. Just as a friend. Her last couple relationships have crashed and burned, and she probably just wants to go with a good friend, someone she’ll have fun with, someone she can trust.

“Yes,” she says, very quietly.

Bellamy can’t read her over the phone, wishing fervently that he could see her face, trail his eyes over her brows and her lips and her jaw to see how she’s feeling. So he tries to dispel what he thinks is her embarrassment by saying, very lightly, “I hope you got some tips from Wells,”  referring to their friend and his over the top ways of asking Raven to Prom, “I expect nothing less than a couple dozen roses and like, a blimp with my face on it and a banner asking me.”

“No,” Clarke says, and Bellamy immediately realizes it was the wrong approach to take. “It was going to be– how could I have _forgotten_? How could I have assumed that you would’ve said _yes_?”

“Hey, hey,” Bellamy croons, already hopping around, looking for his other shoe to slip on. Her house is less than half a mile away– he can be there in ten minutes, tops. “Don’t worry about it. I– you can ask me. Ask me now.”

“I can’t,” Clarke moans, clearly miserable. “I can’t just _ask_ you.”

“Why not?” Bellamy asks, baffled. He opens his window– it’s warm enough, still. No coat, then. He grabs his keys and wallet and is creeping downstairs, trying not to wake his mom or sister. He eases the front door open– thank god he remembered to oil it last week– and is out the door, walking briskly towards Clarke’s house.

“Because,” Clarke insists, “it was supposed to be _special_! There was– I had a _plan_. Okay, maybe not a plan, but I was _planning_ on having a plan.”

Bellamy huffs out a laugh. The girl he loves is ridiculous. “Clarke,” he says, gently, “it doesn’t matter how you would’ve asked me, okay? The answer would’ve been the same.”

He can hear her on the phone, her breath coming out in sharp, short intakes. “Really?” She asks.

Bellamy shakes his head, even though she can’t see him. He nearly trips over his own shoelace, untied, and he grumbles, bending down to tie it, his phone back between his shoulder and his ear. He’s only halfway there.

“You really don’t know?” He asks incredulously. On one hand, he thinks he’s pretty good at hiding his feelings for her– on the other hand, he knows deep down that he’s not. He’s never been good at hiding anything.

“ _You_ really don’t know?” She parrots back, sounding clearer than before. Bellamy stands back up, shoe tied, and freezes.

She’s standing in front of him, perhaps four feet away, in loose, rolled up jeans with holes in them, flip flops, hair thrown up in a messy bun, and an oversized lilac tank top on that has a biology joke on it.

She takes his breath away, every time.

Clarke’s the first one to end the call, but she doesn’t come any closer to him, and neither does he step closer to her. “Great minds, huh?” She says sheepishly.

Bellamy stuffs his phone in his pocket. “I guess so,” he says. Now that she’s in front of him, he doesn’t know what to do or to say.

“It was–” Clarke looks down, blushes. “It was going to be special.”

He realizes what she’s talking about after a moment. “Clarke,” he begins.

“I know,” she says, interrupting him. “I know that you didn’t need for it to be. But _I_ wanted it to be special. I wanted it to be this big– gesture. Something special, something epic.”

“Why?” Bellamy asks. Clarke isn’t a dramatic, over the top person. She doesn’t mind when the attention is on her, but she doesn’t draw it to herself.

“Because you deserve it. Because I wanted you to know– without a doubt– how special you are to me.”

It’s almost more than he can take, honestly.

“And now,” she sighs. “Now I’ve ruined it. I have no clue what I was _thinking_ , honestly, I’m not like this normally–”

“Your subconscious clearly knew,” Bellamy says, a corner of his mouth quirking up, “that I would say yes. That of _course_ we would go together, that we were _always_ supposed to go together.”

Clarke shakes her head, self-deprecatingly, but her lips are quirking up. “This is why I didn’t have a plan yet. I’m not good at this kind of stuff, not like you. You always know what to say.”

Bellamy licks his lips. “You don’t have to, I don’t know, ask me to Prom in iambic pentameter or in perfect Latin or something, Clarke. You don’t need to write me a sonnet for me to know how much you care about me. You– I’m good at words, but you’re good at _actions_. I’ve known for a long time just how important our friendship is to you because of what you do, not just by what you say.”

To his surprise, Clarke groans again. “But that’s not–!” She says, scrubbing a hand down her face. “But that’s not what I need you to know!”

Bellamy frowns. “I don’t understand.”

Clarke lets out a huff, scowling, before she marches over, closing the distance between them, placing one hand on his shoulder and the other threading through his hair, simultaneously reaching up and pulling him down so their lips meet.

Her hand tugs at his hair firmly enough so that he knows he’s not dreaming, and Bellamy quickly wraps his arms around her, her hand on his shoulder now curving around his back, and he can’t stop kissing her. He’s not surprised that they fall into a rhythm almost effortlessly, the angles of their heads tilted just right, catching each other’s lips squarely. He can even feel the light, gossamer touch of her eyelashes on his cheekbones.

When they finally come apart, her face is flushed and he can’t slow down his breathing. “I love you,” she says on an exhale, a release. “ _That_ ’s what I need you to know.”

His grin is instantaneous, wide and overjoyed. “I know,” he says, taking her hand and squeezing it gently. “You showed me.”

She comes back to him again, as if she can’t bear to be separated, but she just puts her arms around him for a hug, nuzzling her nose into his neck. He tugs the rubber band at her hair until it releases, kinked blonde waves coming down her shoulders, his hair threading through it. He’s always loved her hair. He puts his lips to her ear. “I love you,” he murmurs.

Clarke hums contentedly. “Come to Prom with me, then?” She asks, her voice catching on her laughter.

He wants to say something teasing, something witty and wry, but he’s too damn happy. “Yeah,” he says, pressing a kiss to her hair. “I wouldn’t want to go with anyone else.”


End file.
